The Game of Kings
by Endfall
Summary: The end of a long story. A man who has been ground through ten thousand years of war and survival will meet a boy taking the first steps down that same road. Old truths will be uncovered. Kings will be summoned. The hour of the last battle is nigh. This is the First, Last, and Final Fifth Holy Grail War. This is the Game of Kings. AU, Spoilers For All Canon.
1. The War Upon The Throne Ends

**Welcome to the I've-lost-count-of-the-number-of-rewrites rewrite of The Game of Kings. I'm _really_ sorry for doing this to you, and promise this: There will be no further rewrites. I plan to make only minor revisions to the "Servant summoning" chapter that comes after this, which will allow for the proper foreshadowing of certain events. The chapter following that will be completely redone, and then we can get on to business as usual. It won't take nearly so long as it sounds, I have 8k words of the chapter following that chapter written in draft form - and only minor changes will need to be made to it, overall.**_  
_

**In other news, I'm looking for prereaders. See, I have this horrible perceptual gap with my own work - I turn out something thinking it's great, and instead, it turns out to be mud (for a specific example, see the last chapter of the original version of the fic, which is accessible through my profile). This chapter may also be an example.  
**

**If you're interested, you'll get prior access to new chapters. It works as follows: I send you draft versions of chapters. You give me general feedback of a critical nature: What you liked, what you didn't like, where I wrote well, and where it was awkward. It doesn't have to be long, I'm generally looking for short, _critical_ feedback from multiple readers.  
**

**In return you get:  
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**0. The Final Draft, three days before general release.  
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**1. Credit, of course.  
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**2. Any PM sent to me will be promptly answered, barring crisis situations and situation when I'm not absle to access the internet (eg, travel).  
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**3. 200 words of Prereader Notes per chapter preread, to use for whatever you like. Advertise your stories, talk about what interests you, defame me, the word "strawberry" 200 times - literally, whatever you like (provided it's not illegal in my country). These can either be used on a per-chapter basis or saved for later use.  
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**If becoming a prereader interests you, please, drop me a line.  
**

* * *

_01. Caldera Valhallis_

* * *

_Somewhere, that wasn't a place, there was a universe of blue. Behind time, before space, and somehow, fundamentally **outside** of everything, it stood, as testament to itself and it's own eternal nature. This place we call Akasha._

_Beyond it's centre, outside it's edge, in a space that takes the Heart of the Root of All Things simply because the conscious minds within it decided it ** must**, a battle rages. Sparks, motes in a sea of transfinite blue flash, microscopic against the backdrop of eternity, but cataclysmic in their own right: Noble Phantasms, the weapons of Spirits of Old, Spirits of the Present Day, and Spirits that might Never Be. Heroes, one and all, they are venerated in tale and memory, even in this songless age, they stand, transcendent, as perfect exemplars of the ideals of humankind._

_But all is not well._

_Noble Phantasms, after all, are not weapons to be used lightly, least so here, in the Throne of Heroes upon the Root of the World - for though death might never come to these perfected and immortal souls, there is a cost in action, severe, and final - lifeblood might never flow, but the blood of their lore, the vitality of their myths? Aye, that is a dire currency indeed, and each drop is precious - for so long as they have a little, they might be remembered, but for that blood to run dry spells the Death of their legends in the Worlds that Are, and by that loss, the end of their immortal existences._

_This is the cost of battle in Akasha._

_It's an impossible cost, a terrible cost, a cost that none should be willing to pay, but in the eyes of some, the price is worth it, and so Noble Phantasms are used in anger, not to save, but to destroy, not to defend, but to attack, not for ideals, but for greed, and immortal blood falls upon the ground as the greatest legends of ten thousand years and nevermore, a million peoples and all humankind fight for the only prize that might have inspired anyone to such madness._

_It is called the Holy Grail._

_It is a Deus Machina._

_One wish to the worthy is its promise; and the Kaleidoscope whispered unto them: "Anything is possible. So come forth! Do battle! Those with the greatest legends will be summoned! Those with the flimsiest existences will be ignored! Do as you might, Heroes, and grow in power even as you fall from grace; and we promise you: Your wishes shall be granted!"_

_And one and all, defined from naught, They strode forth and did battle._

_And like a heartbeat, heroes began to be called forth. Six at a time, then, after countless aeons of perfect bloodshed and slaughter, seven - but ere so long was the fight that what began as a massacre became a battle, as some spirits became too irrelevant to continue on, and others, through strength, skill, or the simple superiority of their legends remained as vital and imperative as when it all began.  
_

_So did the Kings emerge, even as the pulse of summonings became anemic._

_Thus, did the battle become a war.  
_

_Ruling the centre, a man clad in a raiment of molten gold led an army, which was without heroic spirits, for he had seen them all and declared them unworthy. In their stead, his was an army of bronze soldiers, abominations of emptiness, without name, without history, neither noble phantasms nor outside the ken of his legend - one day, an alchemist would go on to use them to create the terracotta army of a certain emperor; but now, in their primordial state, they fought without reason, slaughtered without cause, and held their own against a tide of legends._

_They were an army without a purpose, led by a king without a goal._

_And they held against the storm._

_From one side, an impossibly tall man in a crimson cloak grinned, and ravaged the Golden King's army with his own forces, an army of Heroic Spirits, whose legend was his as his legend was theirs, whose betrayal had cost him his dream and whose loyalty had led him to unimaginable victories. In an era where the world was a universe unto itself, they had led him to conquer and dominate a portion of it that would be unequalled for long ages. Named a thousand times in a thousand tongues, this man, this King of Conquerors, fought against monstrosities from the High Age of the Gods, and though they held against him, His army held against them, a feat so impossible that, if nothing else, he had earnt the Golden King's respect._

_Above the battlefield, Dragons flew, whirling like unfathomable ravens, those Divine Beasts, who bore their legends upon Gaia's banner, opposed to Alaya's had come to aid their sister, a human with the blood, heart, and soul of a dragon, who had burned her lands to save them, who died without a kingdom, whose people fought against her, whose only wish was to save them from suffering. She rode upon the back of a crimson dragon, sword held behind her even as she menaced the armies of the other Kings from on high. To see her face would leave her nameless, but to know her legend, one need only listen to her cry, "**EXCALIBUR!**"_

_And thus a calamity descended from the sky._

_The battle did not end._

_But all who fought it bled, and paid the price in the memory of their legends. The Golden king saluted she, that angel of death, and acknowledged her strength as worthy of his name: Thus he drew forth his blade, forged from the corpsemetal of a star - _

_But before he could give his answer to he blow, a second calamity answered in kind._

_For, solitary, supported by no one, believed in by no one, his appearance remembered by no one, there was a fourth king, dressed in green and black, his face indistinct, his expression distant. With a book open in his hands, he tore the forces of base nature from the primordial **ma** and rendered them unto the King of Dragons as payment justly given for the attack so wonderfully received._

_Four Kings, surrounded by countless heroes battled for their right to fight for the Holy Grail._

_As they did, a man dressed in the cerements of a saint stepped aside of nothing, not upon the battlefield but beneath it, for he had grasped a fundamental truth that had eluded the minds of those true heroes, used to honourable battle._

_This was Akasha._

_This was no place._

_There was no ground._

_There was no sky._

_He could be wherever he wanted to be._

_Thus, as heroes fought and killed each other, this man, who had no legend, who was not a true hero, who could lose nothing in this battlefield, but could gain everything by participating in it braced himself against the air, and drew forth twelve spears of impaling light, then twenty four, then forty eight, then on and again, 'till the skies of the Caldera were consumed by a bloody glow, purpling them in a cloak of alien twilight._

_And above, the battle slowly ground to a halt, because this was something new._

_And this was Akasha. And space itself was only an imposition, here, which is Everything._

_The archer, dressed in the colour of freshly spilled blood superimposed every spear upon itself, drew them against a bow as black as night, and with a titanic surge of prana that wasn't anything, he Broke them all._

_And._

_Then._

_He._

_Loosed._

_Thus was it, that a hero with no name, who wasn't a hero, who lacked a legend, or even a right to be here, within the Throne, struck the greatest and most devastating blow of the Endless War._

_But, even though the blow was terrible, it was not the last, and as the souls of Heroes once again reconstituted themselves from their ashes, the man stepped aside of Nothing again, gone to the service of his master, because this was the truth: he was nameless. No human knew his face. Only a few knew his existence- and it was a bitter thing, unworthy of being called a legend._

_But that didn't matter. _

_Because, near the end of his life, that man had traded his freedom for power, and in that moment, he ascended. And as the slow aeons of his service passed, he slowly grew in strength, one war at a time - and as he did, his master had occasionally given him some freedom to Decide._

_Islands of clarity, upon an ocean of blood._

_And ** this** is the **truth**: In every world where Alaya exists, in every world where humans dream, in every world touched by the nature of the Original One, were you to take **anyone** off the streets and rip the knowledge of the greatest guardian and defender of humanity from their unconscious minds, a single answer would come from every throat._

_**EMIYA.**  
_

_And in the eyes of Akasha, that was right enough to be upon the Throne, even if he was not truly of it._

_Thus, there, in the Throne of Heroes, a man who had no name, who had no myth, who had achieved nothing worth remembering in his life, who had never gained the nature of "Hero" laid a blow of such terrible power upon all who fought there that he was incontestably worthy of being in their ranks. And as the battle slowly began anew, the Spirits of the Ages knew this: he would return._

* * *

_02. Two Wise Kings_

* * *

_There were those who chose to wait before entering the battle; for it is true that desperation brings a terrible and limitless strength, but foresight is the domain of humankind. To wait, and strike at a moment of advantage is far better than to fight with your back to a corner.  
_

_Even the Kings, whose veins ran rich with the ichor of memory were lessened after EMIYA's blow - and in that moment, another, who had held his hand at bay until now, chose to act; for he was a subtle king of subtle powers. _

_Few noticed when five stones came forth, and struck down a man in the garb of a Roman Legionaire. Fewer still that his weapon dissapeared, and that he faded out of the battle. Such things had happened many times before. _

_Only one saw the man standing on the horizon raise his hand, holding a weapon over his head that should never have been his, taken by right of conquest and its own will. But when the terrible power of the Lancea Longini came forth? When the spear with the power to choose Kings, chose?_

_Aye._

_That was noticed by a great many, and the great cry that rose from everywhere as an entire __**nation** of Heroic Spirits, blood unspilled, strength unspent, came forth from the Throne beyond the Caldera - why, that was noticed by all. Even the Golden King condescended to give a nod of the smallest respect to such a masterful stroke, that had at once changed everything.  
_

_And it had changed everything: For these Heroes, blessed by the mantle of the Spear of Destiny had brought forth something with them - something greater than any Noble Phantasm, here in Akasha, the garden of ideas.  
_

_They brought angels. They brought demons. They brought great, celestial hosts, wheels of fire, sightless eyes that viewed the impiety in a man's heart, and taught it the meaning of guilt. They brought forth a man, whose name was power, whose nature was twofold and one._

_And Akasha, the heart of all things that was all things...  
_

_began to **change**.  
_

_It wasn't a reality marble. It wasn't even something that could easily be put into human words or concepts. It was simply another of the many truths buried in the crush of all things being called to the forefront.  
_

_The quality of light was the first thing to change - going from piercing blue to a powerful, completely impossible shade of rich amber, the first sign of a coming of a place that was too extreme for the physical world, but was well suited by the thoughtless perfection of this, the centre of all things. Chorus came next, and it was sung in a single language, which was lost to this world: The Tongue of Babel, which is to humans as the world itself.  
_

_And the sky was covered in empyrean clouds, as pure light slammed against everything, the power of the White God being made manifest as the greatest and most terrible of the Divine Spirits manifested Himself upon Akasha's shores.  
_

_And the Word was Spoken, "**Begin.**"  
_

_One and all, the Nation Chosen by God gave forth a mighty roar, and behind their Twice-Chosen king, they charged.  
_

_Behind them, the dreams and nightmares of a faith powered by the belief of over one billion people followed, and the Caldera Valhallis fell into an empyreal chaos, a war the likes of which hadn't been seen since the dawn of time itself.  
_

_Angels, welding swords of flame, spoke truths so beautiful that the minds of heroes broke upon them; Demons, who knew every darkness lingering in the human heart played upon every weakness that still lingered in a Hero's "perfect" heart, and...  
_

_For the first time-  
_

_For the very first time, since the start of this timeless battle-  
_

_Even the Kings were laid low.  
_

_It was a perfect, apocalyptic strike, and it seemed as if, by the simple exertion of the virtue of temperance, the Twice Chosen King and his nation had decided the battle.  
_

_But of course, foresight is the domain of humankind. And one last king, whose mind was as twisted and clever as the Crimson Archer's, had not only seen the value of waiting, but had understood the nature of the ground.  
_

_And so he stepped forth, in the centre of the battlefield, with no army to call his own, with no Noble Phantasms manifest to proclaim his nature. And not a single person noticed, as quietly, he began to chant..  
_

_Thus the combined might of Heaven and Hell were left behind, as a great and primal darkness covered the heavens, and in perfect, absolute silence,_

_an Ocean fell from The Sky. _

_An ancient god's wrath made manifest, not as simple truth, but as a Reality Marble upon the face of the Supreme Ultimate. A distortion, imposed on the face of **truth itself**.  
_

_Heroes and Kings alike were buried beneath its crushing onslaught, and of the hundred thousand heroes of old and ages yet to come, only the Golden King survived, having braved incalculably deeper waters in his own life._

_The rest drowned, and upon the largest of twelve ships, a final king simply laughed, delighting in his triumph._

_But this was a war that raged in the heart of Forever. And so even his brilliant victory wasn't to last.  
_

_For above the ocean that had denied the might of The One God, shining like a crimson star,  
_

_He came forth once more._

* * *

_03. Apotheosis  
_

* * *

_Chaos. Crisis. Dissolution. Downfall.  
_

_A single, bass voice rung through the chaos of the battlefield. It said, "The centre cannot hold."  
_

_And in a moment, in a heartbeat, in a timeless span that lasted the ages of the universe even as it was briefer than the first instant of time, a Crimson King stepped aside of nothing, wearing a mantle of utterly alien supremacy - here, in the heart of all things! For in the span of endlessly delineated moments that had separated his going from his return, something had changed. Something in his countenance.  
_

_The first time he had come, he had come as a hero known by none, with an understanding of Akasha surpassing all. Now, he came as a ruler, from a realm foreign to Akasha's shores, with might that exceeded the sum of everything and nothing, that was above and beyond any possible conception, born of his life, and of the death of untold billions, a sword forged for but one purpose.  
_

_To destroy!  
_

_And there, above the Wandering King's ocean, Emiya stood firm on the boundary of nothing, reached beyond it, and drew madness forth from the abyss.  
_

_And it was a sword, in the shape of Apotheosis. A sword that transcended all reason, all understanding. A sword, sheathed in the only thing that could contain it, a unknown material stronger than the universe itself.  
_

_There, in the unknown heart of all existence, in the Caldera Valhallis that never was, he drew it, and in that moment, Akasha herself **bled**.  
_

_And then, for the first time in all eternity, she. took. _**interest.**

**This act alone sealed his Legend.  
**

In that moment, the Uncrowned King, the Hero that Nobody Knew was formally recognized as a being transcendent of all bindings, a sovereign existence, a peerless being who had achieved the absolutely impossible - and he was not yet done, for in the space of a moment, he held that terrible blade above his head, and with two words, he Broke it.

Space _screamed._

Time_ shattered._

And here, in the Throne of Heroes, where the souls of legends lost fight for the chance to gain a wish, the crimson archer lashed out with a weapon that was a concept so alien that it was horrifying to all that viewed it. Those who were not erased from existence went mad; those who were mad, were shocked into sanity; and the few with the fortitude to withstand the horribly alien _thing_ that the Servant had loosed upon part of the Heart of Existence looked upon him in revulsion, anger... and fear.

In the aftermath of his cataclysmic strike, which had torn at Akasha itself, he spoke.

"Know this. I am Emiya. I am the King of Blades. I have come forth to put a final **end** to this Cycle of Holy Grail Wars: For the Grail is tainted. It can grant no wish, save the destruction of the world. You - _all_ of you, came here in the hope of having a wish granted. You regret. You despair. You left the world with a legend writ in Eternity, _and it was not enough__._

"This is the end. What comes beyond this moment is the _last_. If any of you still have the conviction that led you to become heroes in the first place, _join me_, and if anything is left of the grail after I am through with it, I swear, I will carry your wishes to it and see them done: For I alone am guaranteed to stand in that final battle."

And the opposing Kings stood unmoved. And a few - a very few of the Heroes moved behind him. Some were wary of him, this unknown interloper with horrifying strength. Most, though, simply had desires to powerful to subordinate themselves to anyone.

And the King of Blades simply laughed - he had served Alaya long enough to know that this was the only possible outcome.

"So be it. Come then! Face your deaths with your meaningless pride! Be true to yourselves, and perish!"

And then, he spoke for the last time:

**...I AM THE BONE OF MY SWORD...**

* * *

**_This is how the Final Holy Grail War began. Before the servants were even summoned, in a stage that none of them would even remember, Kings clashed in a war more terrible and yet less dire than the one that was to come; but here, they set the tone. The Caldera Valhallis: The stage from which the grail evaluates heroes, to insure not only compatibility with the master, but evenness of strength. The King of Blades, by his mere existence, disqualified every Heroic Spirit that was not a King, and every King who had not a legend that bordered myth itself.  
_**  
**_here, in this time out of time, the death of the world was set into motion  
_**  
**_and now it begins_**

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_**Postchapter A/N:** _

Of critical importance: All review replies are now being handles on a forum. Since I tend to reply in detail, multiple replies consumed thousands of words, leading to an artificially inflated wordcount somewhere in the 8000+ range. Expository A/N content (eg, Servant Stat Sheets, how Noble Phantasms and Attributes are Ranked, et al) will be linked to, post chapter, on a Google Site made for the purpose. I'd have preferred doing it on forums, but forums eat my formatting and some of my unicode characters.

Of marginal importance: The transition to non-italic was deliberate, not a typesetting mistake. The rest of the story will be formatted along less overly-italicized lines. Arturia drowning in the ocean was likewise not an error - if you understand who the Wandering king is, and think about the Nauverse concepts of priority and originality, it makes sense.

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**Idea Credits - Spoiler alerts for, in order of credit given****:**_** Vinland Saga, Gunnerkrigg Court, The Epic of Gilgamesh & Fate/Zero**  
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_Caldera Valhallis - (The Heart of the Throne)  
_

Inspired by the manga Vinland Saga, wherein a character has a dream of Valhalla, and it is not a place of glory, but a place of bloodshed, where dead warriors slaughter each other until the end of all things, killing, reviving - an existence that is nothing but a perfect bloodbath: what those men sought to create in life, they are given in death.

And it is hell._  
_

_Emiya's Sword  
_

Is a sword. It is also, incidentally, the inspiration for this story. It was inspired by Coyote's Tooth from a webcomic called Gunnerkrigg Court, and shares many properties therewith. It is, however, far more terrible a thing than it's inspiration._  
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_Gilgamesh Not Drowning  
_

Gilgamesh walking to the bottom of the Persischer Gulf is not enough for a man worthy of the title of King of Heroes.

So, I decided to take Vimana into account. It's a Noble Phantasm he has which is superior to all modern aircraft. Thus, with Gilgamesh being able to plausibly travel the entire globe, the Plant of Immortality that he walked the bottom of the ocean to obtain...

Is now located at Challenger Deep.

Gilgamesh **_literally_ **walked to the _bottom_ of the ocean to obtain it.


	2. Spiral of Awakening - Part A

**-!~ WARNING ~!-**

_This story was written before Fate/Apocrypha was anything more than a cancelled videogame. Do not expect anything sourced from it to be faithful to the new Light Novels, unless I find it convenient. _

_This story was also written before Mahou Tsukai no Yoru came out, and frankly, I haven't read any of it yet. Expect bits of Nasuverse canon introduced in that story to possibly be missing. _

_Finally, this story is an AU - not in a hardcore "Shirou is the Heir of Tohsaka, Who Was Raised by Kotimine Kiritsugu, Emiya Kirei pulled a girl named Rin out of the Fire; Magi are the faction concerned with the world while the church searches for Heaven" sense, but definitely in a more solid way than a "Shirou accidentally summons Archer" sense._

_This pirated copy of the Nasuverse is humming along somewhere in between the two: Some details of skills have been changed. Some character's backstories are expanded upon. Some bits of world logic are explored to greater depth, and new pieces of that logic are added. I've tried to preserve the flavor of the Nasuverse while also keeping my own style distinct, but only time will tell how successful I've been._

**-!~ YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED ~!-**

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_PrinceAladdin2's Prereader Notes_

Have any of you guys heard about _Campione_ yet? Seriously, if not, or if the only things you know about it come from the anime or the great Fate/stay night crossover fics there are of it, you should read it now. Like right now. The whole thing is just awesome event after awesome event after awesome event, with no real end in sight. And every character, even the harem ladies, has a good personality and a chance to be badass, something almost no harem series have when it comes to their females. With them, the main character and his level of badassness, and all of the other interesting and humorous characters, you almost don't need the fight scenes, which are spectacular. Seriously, if you haven't read or watched it by now, do so. You will not be disappointed.

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_**Author's Notes**__: _Hi there. Endfall here, with the first five of twenty thousand words after about four months of writing. Yeah, I know, I'm slow as hell. Procrastination was sort of necessary at this point, though. If this Episode is the gun being fired, the rest of the story is just a description of the bullet's course. Basically, I just wanted to make sure I was going to get everything right this time.

Good news is, I'm fairly sure I have. We have some _epic_ times ahead of us!

So, welcome to the first official chapter of the rewrite of this story.

Oh, and before we begin the story, I have an important announcement!

This is the first chapter of The Game of Kings vetted under the prereaders system, whose ranks currently include the excellent tenrou29 and PrinceAladdin2! Noticing a lack of things that make you want to facepalm? Noticing no blatant violations of characterisation? The smooth flow of the text?

They had a hand in all these things! (Any errors still extant, are, of course, my own.)

Did you know that NASA exists in the Nasuverse? Proof is in the fifth Kara no Kyoukai movie. Deuterocanon, but I'm running with it.

Bonus material (spoilers for this chapter, if you want to check it out, it's probably best to do so after reading) can be found at: goo . gl / qBLPw

**Well, that's all I have to say at this point in time.**

**Shall we begin?**

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_The First Law, to Create From Nothing.  
____・ー・_  
The Second, to Define It.  
___・ー・_  
The Third Law, to Embody Truth.  
___・ー・_  
The Fourth Law, to Rewind It.  
___・ー・_  
The Fifth Law, to Take The Root, and Mold It in Human Hands.  
___・ー・_  
The Sixth, To End It All, That All May Begin Again.  


* * *

**The Game of Kings**  
Episode 1: Spiral of Awakening_  
_

_Part A_

_Author: Endfall  
Prereaders: tenrou29, PrinceAladdin2  
_

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**Ten Years Prior to the Final Heaven's Feel**

* * *

_**Flame!**  
_

_A sun in the colour of nothing gazed down from infernal heights, upon a magnificent forge. Once a city, now a modern Golgotha, the air swam with heat as a black-burning inferno thrived in the quanta of misery. In pain-that-wasn't, the fire ate lives, histories, origins, memories - indeed, for it was a fire from another world, a thing of True Magic, and the fuel of its heat was human souls.  
_

_Born of a black mind, the flame knew nothing other than destruction. Its nature was dissolution and downfall in the bubbling of flesh; the sizzling of still-living meat being charred against bone. It was a principle of cruel destruction, a curse created to bring an End to all, and it brought more than death to those it met on its hungry quest. It brought sorrow. It brought despair. It brought the feeling of being stabbed in the back by a lover. It burned its perverse message upon all it touched in the one and a thousand tounges: "This world is nothing but suffering. Nothing!"_

_When its victims begged, and pleaded for death, it waited, and waited, and waited, and only when they lost everything and accepted its message - **only** then - did it grant them salvation by destruction.  
_

_And as they died, those souls, raped by the revelation of fire rejoiced, for their wishes had been granted!__  
_

_One hundred. Two hundred. Four hundred -  
_

_Then, the black-burning flame came upon a soul that had nothing good in it. It came upon an origin of worthlessness, a life that was born for no purpose, that would one day die having accomplished nothing - but that was destined to be content in the story of its meaningless suffering.  
_

_"This cannot be!" Cried the flame, hungry to twist, and pervert, and destroy; but there was nothing to destroy here, for fate had granted this soul a sublime downfall already.  
_

_-But, _

_fire is a slave to its nature. It could not leave this soul unscathed._

_So with horror and trepidation, it began to eat away at this soul, to curse this Origin, whose nature had already fated it for destruction. And as it did, it wept, for it burned away not that which was good, but the imperfections, consumed not that which was strong, but the weaknesses, cursed not that which was great, but the smallness.  
_

_Thus, in the pyre of souls, a flame that existed to destroy and bring ruin to all forged Worthlessness into a magnificent Sword for no purpose but to see it unmade. And what a blade it was: White, perfect, free of all evil! A justice too painfully pure for this base world of ours.  
_

_"Done," it murmured at last, and finally finished its painful task, "Done and Undone." _

_It leapt for the thing of perfection it had created, eager to burn at it, and destroy it forever.  
_

_Upon the very last moment, a golden light intervened.  
_

* * *

**Nine Years Prior to the Final Heaven's Feel**

* * *

At the centre of the Clock Tower was a vast antechamber in the style of the Roman senate. Here, every century, the greatest magi of the current age would gather to hold a symposium. It was carefully scripted - every word, spoken by every magus carefully designed, to offer enough enlightenment to perhaps be of use, while cloaked in enough obfuscation to hold safely the true secrets of the speaker's clan. In two thousand years, only one man had ever laid bare the nature of his art in all honesty, and this man, whose name is Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg had, on that day, proven beyond a doubt that True Magic was innately beyond the ken of the average mage.

For he had given the full and complete blueprint to the Second Magic to all, freely, and worded as transparently as possible... And of all who had attended the Symposium of 1700, not even a single one among them had understood even the barest sketch of what it had all meant.

Indeed, it took another forty years before he crossed the first man to have some inkling of the truth in the words he spoke - but that is a story for another time.

Alas, for our narrative, the last symposium had come and gone ninety-five years past, and thus, we may not discover any number of interesting and useful anecdotes about the current Clans and the nature of their Magecraft.

Rather, we find ourselves drawn inexorably downward by the weight of our disappointment, deep, underneath the floor, through a boundary of nothing that permitted not even the world to cross it, and into a gap far larger than the antechamber above it. Massive beyond easy conception, and hewn from the living rock, in this room, under the centre of the Clock Tower, there was an artefact - a thing from time forgotten, built of materials that could no longer be found on Alaya's shores. A black cube, covered in red lines that crossed each other at slowly changing angles that invoked many and long dead gods: For mercy. For protection. For guidance through the storm.

Pulsing with an inner light, these lines, these invocations to the great gods of a world that had been lost to time, carried enough stored prana in them to destroy the world... Or to survive a calamity capable of the same.

Standing before the only door that led into the chamber, a figure garbed in clothes that had not been appropriate for thousands of years stood, staring at the pulsing of those mercurial prayers, as in synchronicity with its heart, they lit and shifted, swirled and changed.

A door opened, and one of the only others who knew of the existence of the massive object - though she knew nothing of its true functions and purposes - entered the room.

"Ah," the person spoke, "Lorelei. I thought I might see you here, today."

* * *

**Prior  
**

* * *

...and all was neither darkness, nor light, nor the absence of light, but a meaningless noncolour formed by the idea "Devoid of Everything". The cavern, carved out of the ancient stone of Britain was gone, and in its place was a world of withouts, held in perfect entropy and stillness, save for a light wrong-coloured for this world - too meaningful, or perhaps, bearing meaning not meant for this Earth's realm.

It _was_ light, yes. But it was far too perfect and complete to be anything but painful to the eyes of man and monster alike. It was the idea of light in entelechy, unrepetant, glorious and pure - and far, _far_ too much.

In the depths of that luminance, that apotheosis of light, there spun a globe rendered in the colour of completion. Were we capable of seeing it through anything but a lens of words, crafted to speak the truth without enforcing its rape upon our consciousness - we would say that truly, this world looked like our own Earth...

But only _like_ Earth. At points, the white line separated into other colours, less complete, closer to human understanding: one something like the red of seething magma and vital blood, the other, a relative of the blue of glacial ice and august sky. The "red" boundaries paid obeisance to all the maps of the world that humans knew.

The "blue", in turn, was a thing of contradiction and lies: Land upon sea, mountains upon plains, continents upon oceans, with no regard for the reality that they denied in the passing of their existence.

Two worlds as one, the one as neither; this world was Earth, and a _terra incognita_ at once. It was also the truth - and something was about to happen.

It began in Japan. In a single instant, two diverging boundaries on the map joined to become one. And then, throughout the world, it sped across the globe, separation being remade into completion, boundaries rewritten, nations cast into oceans in perfect silence, until at last the world itself shuddered and descended into chaos as it tore itself apart.

And then, the shambles of a silent calamity vanished, as the all-consuming nature of the void diminished itself, and drew into a great obsidian cube.

With a deep and cthonic groan, a portion of the might contained within it's boundaries was lost, and a crimson mystery manifested itself - the frame of a door upon air.

And reality opened.

In that moment, there might have been jubilation, or terror; awed masses, or trembling nations. In that moment, great miracles might have been made manifest upon the world, or horrific tragedies might have been writ upon the face of history,

For here, from a realm of fullness too extreme for the limits of both Gaia and Alaya alike, a God stepped forth into the world once more.

And were there any alive who remembered His legend, they might have cried:

_Lo, and behold! Here comes He; once a mere mortal man, now a Peer - He, who Heard the Words of The Flamebringer and the Gods, Who Created Our Refuge, Who Weathered the Storm!_

But there were none who remembered this God for what He was. And instead of choosing to announce His presence to the world, He decided another course - for He was a subtle God.

His presence, which announced His nature, faded out of perception, and then what stood upon the air of the chamber was only a man, with golden hair and bronze skin covered in blood-red tattoos, eyes closed as he murmured commands in a dead tongue - weaving mortal power with ability beyond the level of mortal men. With a final, decisive syllable, a greater spell of concealment came into effect, all identifying details faded from his flesh, and all that was left in his place was a humanoid figure garbed in clothes that were utterly out of time.

It's eyes opened - and what colour they were, none could say.

Deep within the material of the cube, the death of the world began anew.

The figure's face hardened, and lowly, in the Original Language, it whispered, "_Show me..._"

And the truth was laid bare. The darkness draining out of it, the great cube assumed the shape of reality, and the figure in ancient robes saw the truth. A revelation of fire, a hole in the sky - and for a brief moment a face: It was human, and monstrous; ancient, and foetal; innocent, and guilty; lined by endless, countless years of rage.

Quietly, the figure murmured, "A peer..."

* * *

**Simultaneously, Some Thirty Meters to the South  
**

* * *

Waver Velvet paused in front of the wooden doors, his hand raised to knock, when they suddenly opened of their own accord. "Enter." Said a light, feminine voice, that belied the power of its owner.

What lay ahead of him was shrouded in profound darkness. Buried somewhere in the murk, he knew, lay the owner of that voice and the judgement she would lay upon him - either she would give him his future, or she would give him his death.

He... would have liked to say that it was without hesitancy that he began to walk forward. Really, he would. But it's one thing to decide to walk a dangerous path, and quite another thing to actually do so.

_Still_, he mused, _I know where I must be_.

And he took one step, and then another, and built a swift pace from stillness. His footsteps echoed in the hallway, and his heartbeat was irrationally fast - yes, there was already fear, here. But there was also acceptance. After all, to flee was unthinkable - an action not even slightly worthy of his King, but more, something even he couldn't accept. Because to flee?

_That would make sense.  
_

And so in the turning of moments, Waver walked through the shrouds of darkness, until at length, he found himself standing in a pool of light, and before him: Lorelei Barthomeloi, Vice Director of the Association, a person with blood and bearing so noble, with power so absolute, that some of the higher strung members of the underground nobility called her their Queen. Rather than acknowledging his presence any further, she calmly wrote upon a piece of crème stationary paper with a dip pen, occasionally pausing at odd intervals and leaving blank spaces in odd places.

She had, of course, noticed him. Just as obvious was the message of his implied importance: Less than whatever she was currently working on. A matter more minor than administrative directives.

Liberated of the need to speak, Waver simply let his eyes wander the room, and slowly, he noticed several... _features_ that seemed to indicate that this room was rather a lot more than what it seemed to be. Most obviously: It wasn't really a room. It was a hallway, and it continued on into darkness past the Vice Director's desk.

The architecture was also strange: From the ceiling, to the walls, to the patterning on the floor, it flowed in qausicrystaline smoothness, the same motifs appearing again and again, but never quite repeating themselves in a true pattern. It made no concessions to human beauty - if it had, he imagined it might have reminded him of Islamic styles - but as it stood, it looked cold and harsh, but somehow purposeful in ways that danced beyond the edges of his ability to perceive.

On an impulse, he let his sixth sense unravel outwards - and thus he saw the not-quite-colourful, multifaceted gleam of prana at work.

Indeed, the instant he let that sense past the limitations of his body, he was completely blinded by it.

Quickly, he drew the sense back into himself, and the world returned to visibility - prana wasn't light, after all. It could only overwhelm his senses, not truly blind them - he didn't have Mystic Eyes. In the second it had taken him to regain his sight, Lorelei had finished writing, put down her pen, and was now regarding him coolly.

"Have you satisfied your curiosity?" She asked.

"Er - I," Waver stuttered, took a deep breath - _calm_ - and began again, "Not at all. I only recently became aware of its existence."

There was a slight pause in the conversation. Lorelei leaned back slightly, lacing her fingers together over the paper. "But you don't give voice to it."

"Do dead men have any use for curiosity?"

"Do they?" She fired back, her tone laced with some emotion, faint, undefinable, "Surely with your recent experiences, you would know more on that subject than I."

Waver smiled, slightly, in spite of himself. "_He_ did. But as for myself? I'd rather face the issue at hand. I'm not the sort of person with the temperament to learn new things while staring death in the face."

The Vice Director of the Association seemed to consider that for a moment, then said, "The Archibald clan are valued friends and allies," then amended, "_Personally,_" as if it were somehow important before continuing, "While right of Judgement goes to them, they entrusted your fate to me - they have little time to deal with the criminal who unmade their work. They're too busy protecting everything else of value that they have."

"Do you even know what your actions have cost them, you ignorant child?"

She paused, gazing at Waver - and he recognized the emotion behind her eyes. Fear, true and visceral raced down his spine - it was one thing to be able to walk towards an abstract death, but _this_...

Waver Velvet had walked onto another bridge, and he found himself standing before another Gilgamesh, one who viewed his life as not a life, who saw his entire existence as little more than a yes/no question.

He had been here before. He stood steady, let his fear course through him, and waited.

And the moment passed. "But not a child any more," Lorelei murmured, "You certainly know the value of your own life now, don't you? And the determination to stand before danger, even so... Nevertheless - the situation remains unchanged. Though I do wonder..."

She paused for a moment, then, seeming to decide on something, continued.

"You are not unintelligent. The mere fact that you attained a level of thaumaturgy capable of surviving the ritual you took part in, in spite of your weak blood, is proof of that. So, Waver Velvet - why have you come? You were not placed under guard. You were simply ordered to appear before me, that I might render judgement. Any sane magus would have fled; certainly, it would have earned you a Sealing Designation for your disobedience, but you know as well as I do that we do not waste resources on the hunting of _Sages - _and you hardly have knowledge of a sorcery dangerous enough to warrant the name _Philosopher_."

"In summary," she concluded, "By running, you had everything to gain; nothing to lose. Your presence here is insanity. Why?"

And then silence reigned again. It was obvious that she expected him to speak, and so taking the barest amount of time to organize his thoughts, he obliged her.

"Because this isn't how it was supposed to end. It is just as you say, Lady Barthomeloi. My presence here," he smiled brightly, "It's definitely insanity. No way around it. But still, I think that this is a better end to the tale than my fleeing the Tower. Certainly one more worthy of my King..."

He trailed off, slightly, before continuing, "But still, you're right and I'm not a madman seeking his death. I came here to_ live_."

And there. A minute flinch. He had her off balance. He had gone beyond the limits of a world that made sense, and in doing so, had taken control of the flow.

At length, Lorelei shifted back in her chair, and said, "Continue."

"What would you call magecraft?" Waver asked in return. And Lorelei frowned.

Men had died for less.

But at length, she deigned to answer, "A war. Against the logic of the world. Against the sway of history. Against the decay of humankind. Against the things in the dark that exist outside of reason. In that order."

Waver nodded - he had expected an answer along those lines, from a Wizard Marshall. "_Exactly. _And to arm ourselves in that war, we too walk outside of reason. '_The practice of magecraft is an insult to common sense - and beware: those who swim against the tide of humanity's desire find it all too easy to drown. There is no safety in what we do, because we are the few, the singular, the nails that must be hammered down. The bulk of the world fears us, and it is right to do so - after all: To be a magus is to walk with death._'

"I don't agree with the majority of my former teacher's thought, but that? That always stuck with me. It was why I joined his class, and why, in the end, I crossed him. We are magi. The wise. We walk against the logic of the world, trade life for knowledge of power. But what we do, we do alone. Every magus works in a different direction. Every family hones their secret arts. Why? Because the more who know a spell, the weaker it becomes. As knowledge of a miracle falls into the world, it is diluted.

"And the reasoning as to why that happens... It's _wrong_."

She was staring at him now, with unnerving intensity.

"It's wrong, not because it's incorrect. It's wrong because it's incomplete. A spell really is weaker if two copies are active at the same time - but when they're not? The power of that thaumaturgy is still weakened - because to be a magus is to transgress and seek irregularity - not to conform. Magecraft is the practice of insulting the common sense of the world - and for every person who knows how to perform a mystery, well, that takes it that much closer to the nature of 'Common Sense'.

"A mystery is only a mystery if it's known to none. Magecraft, and magi defy the common sense of the world. But the core of my thesis, which Lord El-Melloi destroyed?"

Finally, he looked past Lorelei's face, and into her eyes, and spoke the ideal that had landed him in this mess.

"_There is a common sense of Mages. It limits us all. Therefore, one should defy it._"

"And so... _Why, _you ask? Because it would have made sense for a magus to run, and make what little he could of his life. To survive in a miserable existence. I seek something more - and there was only one way forward for me to find it. To obey your summons, to face the consequences of my choice - and come what may."

And the Vice Director just... laughed. It was an utterly alien sound; one completely unexpected from the Queen of the Lords, and it was _wrong_. Mocking laughter, he could understand, but this pure, genuine amusement? That made no sense, at all.

'_Maybe... that's a good thing?_'

Eventually, her amusement spent, Lorelei regained control of herself, but the corners of her mouth remained bent up, in a small, but genuine smile.

"Unbelievable." She said, "I was told that you would be a timid man without strong conviction; a fool who put his life on the line without a sufficient cause. Waver Velvet, _what happened to you_?"

"I met the King of Conquerors, and became his vassal. Then, I met the King of Heroes, and was judged worthy to survive."

"Tell me of it."

And so he did. From his disgrace, to his reckless decision, his fears, successes, failures. He told her of the atrocities he had seen done, of the monsters in the shape of men he had faced. He told her of the battles he had shared with his King, and where they had, at long last, parted ways. He told her what it was like, to look a being more God than man in the eye, and at length, be judged worthy to have done so.

And at last, he told her of the sea of fire that had burned the world - what little he knew of it.

Silence followed his tale, and after some time, the Vice Director returned to her writing, filling out the blanks she had left in her composition flawlessly - as if the words she now chose to be there were the only ones that ever could have occupied them.

And perhaps they were, at that.

At last, it was over, and then, she made her judgement clear.

"You will take this," She said, lifting the paper from the table, and passing it to Waver, "First, you will present it to the Director of the Department of Spiritual Evocation. It deals with some small details on staffing. Then, present it again to the Heir of Archibald. I have written a second message; she knows how to reveal it. It will tell them my judgement. They shall execute it."

Her face returned to the neutrality that seemed to be it's usual expression, she looked him in the eye and said, "Cherish these last moments of your life, Waver Velvet."

As the young man slowly walked out of the corridor, Lorelei stood up, bracing herself against the desk with trembling arms. What she had seen in the report - what had been confirmed by the unbelievable character of the young man whose life she had just spared...

It was a disaster.

It was a calamity.

It warranted the attention of the only power in the Association that was an equal of the Barthomeloi's gift, engraved upon her back and soul.

This was a matter for the eyes of The Director.

Slowly, and with care for the old parchment, she gathered up the maps that had lain under the stationary, and with deliberate care, walked down the hallway that her desk was situated in the middle of, letting memory, prana, and happenstance guide her footsteps - because what laid before her was a mystery: a lock, in seven dimensions, and one that couldn't be overcome by anything other than having been through it before, and the simple _faith_ that one would find one's way through it again.

Concepts that had flowed into the shape of a building melted away, and for mere moments that stretched into a Stygian eternity, Lorelei Barthomeloi walked outside the conceptual edges of the world, and was laid bare by the hungry void that laid there.

This was a place close to the Root - close, but not nearly close enough: For the Root was glory.

And this was horror. But the greatest workings were always those least meant for the human mind to wield unscathed. So she endured, _knew_ that her goal was before her, took a step and then, with no sense of transition found herself before a wooden door that looked older than time, framed against emptiness. A glance behind her showed that her own desk was less than five feet away, and yet for the potency of the thaumaturgy that protected the door, it might have been in another world.

Shifting the rolled papers around, she reached for the door...

But it opened of its own accord - the style of the student, an echo of her master's.

A clear but unplaceable voice spoke from the interior of the chamber, "Ah. Lorelei. I thought I might see you here today."

It was there. In its robes from an era that called back to the dawn of the Age of Heroes, its face indecipherable, but for a hint of a smile. And behind it, the black obsidian cube, that none who knew of talked about, and that only she and seven others even knew existed. Red lines flowed under its surface, slowly pulsing with some degree of hidden meaning that she could never seem to grasp.

But was that so hard to believe?

This wasn't any normal Mystic Code - this thing, whatever it was, was a Noble Phantasm - _the perfected embodiment of a legend. _It was also the oldest one still confirmed to exist on the Earth. It's name was unknown, but The Director had never seemed to need it to properly use it...

Really, as expected of a human who was at least two thousand years old.

"I assume that your presence here has to do with the recent events at Fuyuki?"

_'Really,'_ she thought, nodding in simple confirmation of the Director's apparent mentalism, _'as expected of a monster who was capable of avoiding death's scythe for two thousand years without resorting to vampirism_.'

"Good," it said, "Then I won't have to waste time explaining the basic shape of the situation. Walk with me, Lorelei."

And without waiting for a response, the figure turned, and began to make its way around the still edge of the cube. Lorelei followed, and that was only natural. While she had the raw power to be the match for the thing that was ahead of her, she lacked the centuries of experience that measured the true distance between them.

Truly, if she was a human worthy to challenge Apostle Ancestors, the being who led the greater portion of true magi in the world could be said to have a weight of power and experience that would make it worthy of challenging a lesser god.

"When I elevated you to your office, for your accomplishments and as the newest Heir of the Barthomeloi, do you remember what I told you all those years ago? About the privileges, but also, the greatest duty of your position?"

Lorelei was about to say no, but then the edges of a memory - _jagged sharp pure and **absolutely** unnatural_ - assaulted her consciousness.

"But the greatest of all, Barthomeloi? It has nothing to do with the Clock Tower, and only incidentally touches upon being a magus. **Remember** this. As the Vice Director of the Association, you will know more, be given more, than any other human in the world. We exist to control mages, but that is just the _first_ of our duties. You are now above them. You will watch, and make sure your subordinates don't fall out of line, but your true duty? 'tis simple: With the power accorded to you, you are now upon another tier, and I expect you to stand against the fall of this world as my subordinate. As one of the guardians of the scales."

-and then the fragment of truth fell back into the blur that her childhood of sixty years ago had become.

"...I remember," she said, "after all: you made _sure_ of it, didn't you?"

"Hahahaha! Yes! Yes, I did. Because precious little time is worth wasting on reenacting the past - though, if it is any consolation, I doubt I could break your defenses now. You've grown up splendidly, Lorelei. Now - here we are."

And they stood in front of a corner of the cube, that looked like any other.

"It needs your blood," the Director said, by way of non-explanation.

Glaring at him, she reached into a pocket and procured a small dagger. Small, silver, it was normally just another weapon to fight Dead Apostles with. Now, she slashed it across her palm, decisively, before clenching it into a fist, and holding it out over the slope of the cube.

A single drop fell from her hand...

and fell...

...and stopped in a superposition, both upon the surface of the Phantasm and within it, that impossible image darkening until it was indistinguishable from the cube itself.

"...just what was that supposed to accomplish?" She asked.

"Oh, not much. You're now a recognized user of a very old, very global bounded field. And did you know?"

The Director inhaled harshly, and spoke, "_History never repeats - but it rhymes._"

And with the inevitability and weight of an ocean, those words - absolute and perfect portraits of themselves rose in her mind, and a storm of perfect memory behind them swallowed her whole.

And it was a simple story. The first story. The only one that really mattered.

It was the Truth.

* * *

Once, a person sought to defy the gods. They did many things to reach this goal. Some noble. Some terrible. All necessary.

In the end, it was not enough. Nothing could ever be enough, to defy the high plain of heaven, and its will.

And so, the Gods punished that person, who was condemned to live in despair for all of time.

works **unmade**, **name** cursed, shape** forgotten**, only **watching**, **without** end

**FROM THUS.**

* * *

The memories shattered, and fell back into her unconscious mind.

"Are you all right?" Asked a voice that was at once familiar, and one she had never heard before. Glancing to the side, she saw The Director, looking at her with some concern, his burgundy eyes...

...Wait. His _what_, eyes?

_His_?

She looked at the man across from her, and took in the details of his face and form. Dirty blonde hair, bronze skin, a face of sharp features, casual arrogance carved into every line -

"You're _Sumerian_!?" She blurted out, before covering her mouth, rather embarrassed by the lapse in self control no matter how disorientating the last few minutes had been.

The Director laughed. "Yes, I am indeed! Ah, and you'll be fine, I think. Ye _Gods_, but you Barthomeloi are made of stern stuff - why, when I experienced that Origin... Well, that doesn't really compare anyway, does it? I saw it as it all happened, after all..." The man broke off into incomprehensible muttering, then seemed to realize something.

"Ah, right," He spun on his heel, pointed his middle finger at the Code, and commanded it, "_Elevate the Almighty!_"

And _that_ had been said in in a language that wasn't a language at all. Oh, he spoken, and she had understood, but he had spoken in raw concepts made manifest - and their passing shook the air, and left a slight ringing in Lorelei's ears.

"...the Unified Language?" She asked, at length.

"Right in one," The Director replied, still staring intently into the obsidian cube. Finally, after entirely too long, a burst of red shot out from its centre, ran along the length of her form, and returned to the black depths of the Noble Phantasm's core.

In that instant, the cube had changed - it was no longer a mystery. She understood its purpose perfectly; understood its uses; understood how it was created, and _why_ it had come to be under the Museum of Natural History in _London_ of all places.

"There's a lot you haven't been telling me," she said evenly.

"Of _course_ there was. Knowledge is poison, Lorelei. I wanted to keep you out of the affairs of the High Plain of Heaven for as long as was possible. But be at ease - or curse your fate. Now that you know the Origin, there will be no more secrets between us."

"You've mentioned that twice, now - the Origin. But -"

"- _What was it the Origin of?_" The Director finished her question, then answered with one of his own.

"Tell me, Lorelei - have you ever read the Epic of Gilgamesh?"


End file.
